


This Ship is England

by clockheartedcrocodile



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke, Master and Commander - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Historical Fantasy, Jealousy, Kidnapping, Love Confessions, Multi, Period-Typical Racism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-18 09:28:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28741017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clockheartedcrocodile/pseuds/clockheartedcrocodile
Summary: Jonathan Strange's services are refused outright by the Duke of Wellington before he has a chance to apply himself to the conjuring of Portuguese roads. Mr. Strange is swiftly transferred to the Royal Navy, where he takes the post of ship's magician aboard the HMS Surprise.
Relationships: Jack Aubrey/Stephen Maturin, Stephen Black/The Gentleman with the Thistledown Hair, Stephen Maturin & Jonathan Strange
Comments: 5
Kudos: 23





	This Ship is England

“Is it true,” said Jack Aubrey, leaning forward in his chair, “that you are England’s first practical magician in three-hundred years?”

The magician, who had his mouth full at the time, chewed hastily and swallowed. “I beg your pardon, sir, but I am not. I am only the second magician of the age. My tutor, Mr. Norrell, is the first.”

“Ah,” Jack wilted slightly. “No, I must beg _your_ pardon, Mr. Strange. My men and I are somewhat behind the times. Such is the nature of the service. Our letters come port by port, you know, and with them our news. In fact had it not been for the good doctor here, I should not have known that magic had returned to England at all.”

Stephen Maturin inclined his head at Jack’s words before returning his attention to the roasted potatoes. He ate them slowly, cooling them in his mouth as he went, and regarded the man seated across from him.

His name was Jonathan Strange, and he was new to the service. He was a tall man, though not ungainly, and he wore a sort of earnestness about the eyes that suited him very well. When he smiled, his face was not so much transformed as unveiled; some inner fire within him seemed momentarily to be glimpsed.

He was not quite as Stephen had imagined him. From the dispatches- passed as they were from hand to hand and ship to ship and in and out of code, from Portugal to Spain to Portugal again and finally to Stephen- he had been lead to believe that the man was duller than his master. The Duke of Wellington had rejected him outright. There was nothing, said he, that a magician could do for him. Only Wellington knew how matters stood in Portugal, and Stephen, who had been in the business of war for longer than Jonathan had been in the business of magic, tended to agree. _If JS does not know how matters stand in Portugal,_ he wrote as he awaited Jonathan’s inevitable arrival, _he shall certainly not know how matters stand at sea._

“Is that not so, doctor?” said Jack, his attention half upon Stephen and half upon tapping the weevils from a bit of bread. “I have seen you at it time and again. Why, Mr. Strange, I’d say our Dr. Maturin is a regular sorcerer.”

Stephen, realizing that his attention had wandered and he no longer knew his footing in this conversation, muttered something affirmative and sipped his drink. Jonathan, taking pity on him, gestured between them with his glass. “It is only that . . . well, as I brought my bag to the cockpit, I found that your quarters were already strewn about with meditations on magic. You are a theoretical magician, I take it?”

Stephen wiped his mouth roughly with a napkin, set it aside. “I am.”

“That is extraordinary, sir,” said Jonathan, with a pleased smile. “It astonishes me that you have come across so many blatantly magical papers. Mr. Norrell is quite the, er, avid collector of all texts related to English magic.”

“Well, there you have it, Mr. Strange,” said Stephen. “You have hit the proverbial nail upon the head. I am not an English magician, nor do I devote myself to the study of English magic.”

“But surely it is all one, Stephen,” Jack looked at him in surprise. “English magic and the magic of Catalonia.”

“They are as different as a frigate and a warship,” said Stephen smugly.

“A frigate and a xebec, surely, Stephen,” said Jack gently. “That is what you meant to say.”

“Yes, yes, I said xebec. You did not attend.”

“But we are both magicians, sir,” said Jonathan, leaning forward eagerly. “Setting aside the form of it.”

Stephen looked at him. “Just so. I have always loved magic, though I have no innate talent for it myself. As you said, I am only a theoretical magician.”

Jonathan’s smile did not falter. “Of course, of course. But the magic that I do- and the magic, for that matter, that Mr. Norrell does- is built upon the backs of theoretical magicians such as yourself. Not that you’ll hear Mr. Norrell admit it. I have brought a number of books aboard with my servant, perhaps you would consent to look at them? I am with child to hear your thoughts.”

“Nothing would be more agreeable to me.”

“I cannot fathom it,” said Jack, gazing thoughtfully down at his plate. “Not one, but _two_ practical magicians in England. Upon my word, I cannot think why his Lordship turned you away. Did your English magic leave you adrift in Portugal?”

“I do not know, sir. I had not the chance to apply myself to it.”

“You did not do magic for him?”

“None. It was made clear that I was not welcome.”

“Then you must do some magic for us at once,” said Jack, looking around the table at the general nods of agreement.

“With all my heart,” said Jonathan. He rose from his seat and rubbed his hands together, looking for all the world like a man eager to impress a new employer. “What would you have me do, sir?”

“Killick, clear the table!” said Jack, waving Killick over. “Step lively. Mr. Strange, I would have you show us the French ship Louie Sou, if you please. She’s proved a devil to catch.”

“The l’Oiseu, my dear,” said Stephen very quietly into his cup.

“I can show her to you, yes,” Jonathan smiled, ducking down beneath the table. A moment later he resurfaced with his kit bag in one hand and a shallow silver dish in the other; this he laid upon the table as Killick cleared it. “If I might have a measure of fresh water, if you please? And the dish must be level, quite flat.”

“Flat, flat,” muttered Killick, ambling over with the pitcher. “Which as the magic will spill out, won’t it, f’it ain’t flat.”

All who were gathered watched in abject fascination as Jonathan gazed into the dish. His eyes were half-closed and distant; his mouth formed words they could not hear. They observed with increasing wonder as he sketched the water into quarters, and quarters, and quarters again, until he touched the surface of the water with his thumb and the cabin was filled with a blazing Caribbean sunset.

“Why,” cried Pullings in exultation. “It is the l’Ouiseu!”

Astonished murmurs rippled throughout the cabin as men crowded around to see the l’Ouiseu. Stephen’s gaze was intent upon Jonathan Strange, who now stood back a little, smiling slightly, with a shy hunch to his shoulders. _This is a spy’s magic,_ he thought. _Why, this is the very thing to bring confusion to Buonaparte._

“Hullo!” said Jack, leaning eagerly over the dish. “Hullo down there! Bon-shure!”

“I am afraid they cannot hear you, captain,” said Jonathan, stepping forward once more and steadying the dish with both hands.

“It is for the best. I should not like then to fire upon us!” said Jack, putting his hand over his mouth in delight. Stephen could not help but smile himself. The sight of Jack’s face flushed red with excitement, and his eyes gleaming with all the liveliness of two blue beetles, lifted Stephen’s spirits immeasurably.

Jonathan Strange was watching him. “And how is it to your eyes, doctor?”

“It is a creditable piece of magic,” said Stephen. He looked down into the dish and saw a ship of some kind flying along on seas made bloody by the sun.

“I only wish it were more helpful to you,” Jonathan admitted. He touched the surface of the water once more and the vision began to fade. “To show you where precisely she lies, I mean. But one bit of water is much like another.”

“You will not think so after some time at sea,” Jack laughed. He sat and poured himself another glass. “I hope you will grow accustomed to it after all. I’ve a mind to keep you.”

Jonathan smiled and sat. “I’ve a mind to be kept, sir. My patrons, and Mr. Norrell too, sir, believe that magic could be of great use in the war.”

“Great use indeed,” said Jack. “Have you a woman waiting for you at home, Mr. Strange? A wife? Sweetheart?”

“Arabella,” said Jonathan, and here his expression softened. Stephen saw in his face a look of great devotion, of the kind that is difficult to hide. He saw also that Jonathan was not in the habit of hiding it. “She is my world and more.”

Jack smiled at him kindly. "I regret to say that you will not see her for some time, and our letters, as I told you, come with costly delays. But you knew this when you joined the service, didn’t you?”

“I did, sir.”

“Good,” Jack nodded. He swirled his wine briefly in his glass before continuing. “You know, I must admit that I have thought that magic ain’t quite the thing at sea. No offense to you, doctor,” he added, nodding to Stephen. “But perhaps you, Mr. Strange, can turn me around on that point.”

“I will endeavor to, sir,” Jonathan bowed his head. An old-fashioned gesture, Stephen noted, perhaps one learned from Mr. Norrell. “I will certainly endeavor to.”

“Stephen,” hissed a voice in his ear, as bright and brittle as a pane of glass. “Wake up. Wake _up._ I am tired of being gods.”

The Butler stirred in his sleep, stretched, groaned. His hand clenched reflexively at the silky surface on which he lay. Sleep. _Sleep_. How it had eluded him, how it had tormented him, and now, now when he had finally been allowed a moment of it, a moment to sink into the dark, blessed peacefulness of rest . . .

A cold hand upon his cheek. One long finger tracing the shell of his ear. “Up, up, up,” came the fervent whispering. “They have run out of sacrifices. It is _most_ tiresome.”

The Butler’s eyes opened wide, all thought of sleep forgotten. He propped himself up upon his elbows and looked about him. He lay in the cup of a lotus of extraordinary size, for the natives believed their gods to dwell in such vast flowers. The sky above was hidden by a vibrant canopy of jungle, and he heard the merry chirping of exotic birds and monkeys. The air smelled of overripe fruit.

The Gentleman was smiling, looking down at where the Butler lay like a kindly benefactor. Today he had dressed himself in astonishing colors that the Butler could not recall ever seeing in the world of men, and his watch chain was strung with pearls still dripping from the oyster. His hair haloed his head like the mane of a white lion, and perhaps his face had something of the cat in it too, for he often showed his teeth, and his eyes grew very dark when he looked at the Butler’s face.

“Come, come. You must look at them,” he chided, offering his hand. The Butler let himself be pulled up, and let himself be steadied when he swayed. “They’re so funny, Stephen. They’re singing and dancing now.”

The Butler stepped down from the lotus flower and followed the Gentleman through the trees, feeling like nothing so much as a dog lead upon a chain. Not far ahead of him he could hear music and wailing. The Butler’s stomach curdled at the sound.

What could he say? Could he say anything at all, with such a rose at his mouth? Privately he felt as though its thorns had reached down his throat and wrapped around his heart; a whisper of dissent and they would puncture. Or worse, the Gentleman might tire of him, and might leave him here. Alone among the cannibals.

 _They were not cannibals before we came here,_ thought the Butler, his heart sinking into his shoes. _They were good people. They were good._

“Do you see?” laughed the Gentleman, brushing past the last of the vines before verdant jungle gave way to dusty beach. “Why, I have taken such pains to convince them of our godhood, and now that they are convinced, they should like nothing so much as for us to go away again!”

There were perhaps thirty or forty natives on the beach- a small fraction of the number they had been, the Butler thought in horror- and they had constructed a great pyre, around which they were dancing. They wailed and cried, and sang and prayed, and the Gentleman clapped his hands and laughed to see them do so.

“Isn’t it funny, Stephen?” he said, gesturing towards the pyre with one long, thin arm. “They are doing magic! They wish to send us back to England, and to restore to life all the sacrifices we have demanded!”

“Very funny, sir,” said the Butler. He felt sick to his stomach. “Most amusing.”

“What fun we’ve had, Stephen,” the Gentleman yawned. He crossed his legs in the air and floated gently down to the sand. “To think we have been to all the wildest and most exotic places of the world, and only here, on this island, has it occurred to me to fashion ourselves as gods! How they have worshipped us! But now that I have had them sacrifice all their girls, and all their youngest boys, I find that godhood is growing tedious. I would rather go back to being king,” He looked up at the Butler through his wild silver hair. “I shall make _you_ king, Stephen. It is infinitely preferable to being a god.”

“Then we are leaving?” the Butler breathed, hardly daring to believe it. “At last, sir?”

“Oh yes,” said the Gentleman airily, with a wave of his hand. “Of course, this silly sort of magic has no power at all over me- I cannot be commanded by it. They are not sending me away at all. I merely choose to go, because it is convenient for me to do so.”

The Butler looked down at where he sat, then back to the fire, which roared and blazed in the bright morning air. It had evidently been going for some time. The dancers were tired, stumbling wearily. All of them grown, for there were no children anymore. Their faces were lined with grief, and their feet bled upon the sand, but still they danced. They sang in a strange tongue that the Butler did not know.

“Where then will we go?” he asked. His voice was dry. “If we are not banished back to England, then where? India, perhaps? You have threatened India. I mean to say, you have _suggested_ -”

“Oh no, not India, not yet,” the Gentleman tutted. “No no. Egypt, perhaps. Or the Americas. But . . . oh, you know, I do believe I have business in England . . . yes yes, there is a certain . . . oh yes. England, for I am much desired there. And I shall . . .” Here the Gentleman paused, and suddenly he leapt to his feet. “Why, _Stephen,_ ” he said, in a tone that made the Butler feel bitterly unhappy. “I have it. I have hit upon it directly. There is a little bit of England in this part of the world, I can feel it quite strongly. That is it, yes, that is most _certainly_ the way if we must go to England. Which is to say, I desire to go to England just now, and here, _here_ is the closest bit of it. Come here, come at once, _at once-_ ”

The Gentleman gripped the Butler’s arm firmly as he stepped briefly out of the world, and as the Butler followed him he looked forlornly over his shoulder just in time to see the trees begin to part as children emerged one by one onto the beach and into the arms of their weeping parents. He tried to reach back, to call out, but already he had stepped back into the world again, and he found himself balanced upon the crosstrees of a very tall ship, eye-to-eye with a topmast head on which the initials JA had been inscribed.

The Butler yelled in shock and very nearly plummeted to his death; the Gentleman caught him by the collar of his coat and pulled him up, up, until he was situated again. “Now now, Stephen,” said the Gentleman, as the Butler clung to the topmast like a lichen. “You will not fall. I have you. Ha ha! I have you!”

The Butler looked about him wildly. “Where are we, sir? What ship is this?”

“An English ship,” said the Gentleman carelessly, strolling off the crosstrees with graceful ease and remaining suspended in the air. He looked down at the deck far below him and frowned. “How queer that they aren’t moving . . . the sails are quite emptied of air. Ah, but perhaps it is a Sunday, and the men are at their idleness.”

The Butler pressed his cheek to the sun-warmed wood of the topmast and closed his eyes. “Please, sir,” he muttered, feeling miserable and ill. “Let us go home. Let _me_ go home, sir. I am so very tired.”

“How odd. It is a _lucky_ ship,” said the Gentleman, unhearing. “I, of course, know all things, and have seen every kind of thing before, so this is nothing to me. A _lucky_ ship,” he continued, pacing this way and that in the air, and circling in such a way as to make the Butler very dizzy. “But it is not the _ship_ that is lucky, no. My skin is tingling. There is such a buzzing in my teeth. Hmm.”

Here the Gentleman paused mid-stride, faltering in the air. His eyes grew wide and his face, already pale, flushed with color. “Oh, Stephen,” he said. “Oh, _Stephen_.”

He took the Butler’s hand and peeled it away from the topmast before pulling him to the edge of the crosstrees. The Butler scrambled for a hold, clutching at anything solid, and even with the ship at a standstill he felt terribly certain he would be flung out to sea.

“Look,” said the Gentleman. “Look there,” and he gripped the Butler by the hair and directed his attention to the water.

The Butler stared, uncomprehending. A sail had been let over the side, supported at the corners so that it would fill with water, and a great number of men were splashing about in it. One man in particular had left the sail and was doing laps around the ship, occasionally disappearing beneath the surface and reappearing some yards off. He was heavyset, scarred, and one ear had come upon hard times, but despite this some inner joy seemed to suffuse him with light. One could not help but find him handsome.

The Butler watched as the swimmer resurfaced, flinging his hair back out of his eyes. The Gentleman squeezed his arm. “Have you ever seen anything so wonderful?” he breathed, his voice full of elation. “Oh Stephen, Stephen, Stephen. He is almost as beautiful as Lady Pole. Why, he is almost as beautiful as _you,_ if any man could be so beautiful.”

“Sir,” croaked the Butler.

The Gentleman’s grip on his arm became almost painful, and the look on his face was wild, rapturous, delighted. “I must have him,” he said, and the Butler’s heart sank. “I _must._ Can you imagine it, Stephen? It makes me shudder. Two lovers, one dark, one fair- and I with Lady Pole, the four of us, all perfectly contented- and how handsome he is- he was born under a lucky star, I see it now- oh, he would make such a fine companion for you!”

The Butler eased his trembling hands off the crosstrees and took the Gentleman’s hand in both of his. “But, sir, I could never accept,” he stammered, hoping against hope that this, at least, would work. “You have already given me so much. Fine clothes and rich foods and the treasures of the world . . . it is simply too much, sir, it is simply-”

But the Gentleman was not listening to him. His attention was fixed upon the stranger below, who had begun treading water near the ship. The Butler heard him call up to the deck, “Stephen! Stephen!” and soon a man leaned over the precipice to speak to him.

The Gentleman clasped his hands together in delight. “How well your name sounds in his mouth!” he cried. “It is as though he is in love with you already!”

It was well known in the service that Jack Aubrey did not care for magic. He had a sailor’s superstition about it, and though he tolerated it for Stephen’s sake and greatly preferred it to the usual bees and marsupials, he was not at all inclined to seek it out. In fact, the magician’s arrival on his ship could be traced back to the seal and signature of one individual- a man called Admiral Harte.

It was not that Jack didn’t like Jonathan Strange. On the contrary, he proved a pleasant shipmate in many ways. Jack liked the man. But the fact remained that he was a _magician,_ and there was nothing else he cared to discuss. Jonathan was amiable enough at dinner, of course, but he had to be, and even then he spoke little of anything other than magic. _Magic_ this and _the Raven King_ that. It drove Jack mad to hear it, like a man talking in another language just to spite him.

Stephen, of course, knew this language perfectly well, and at all hours of the day he could be seen discussing magic with Jonathan in the bright, eager tones of a man inspired. Twice now he had mentioned Jonathan during his evening music with Jack, and twice now Jack had nodded and muttered something akin to, _what a fellow,_ and continued playing. It was quite unlike him. Jack had always prided himself on being completely free of jealousy in all its forms.

He was sitting in his cabin on a Monday night, thinking on this and gazing down at an unfinished letter to Sophia as he did so, when he heard a curious tapping at the glass.

Jack glanced up. Through the cabin window he saw the deep, impenetrable darkness of the waves cut through by the Surprise’s trailing wake. It was a cloudless night and stars arrayed the sky. All was well.

He returned to his letter and frowned; he had dripped a blot of ink onto the page. Exhaustion had caught up to him. He rubbed it with his sleeve, begging Killick’s pardon under his breath as he did so, and just at that moment a voice said, “There is a _magician_ here,” and Jack was startled so badly that he very nearly knocked the ink pot over.

He leapt up from his chair and whirled around. Sitting upon one of his chests was an odd man with hair like thistledown. His face was buried in his hands, and he appeared consumed by frustration. As Jack watched, astonished, the Gentleman dragged his hands down his own face and made an angry little _tsk!_ sound before hopping off the chest and beginning to pace.

“Why, sir,” said Jack, feeling increasingly put by the lee, “whatever are you on about?”

Curiously, he felt neither fear nor confusion. Nothing but the certainty that he was dreaming, and that when he woke, he would find his cabin once again undisturbed. The extraordinary seem commonplace in dreams, and Jack could find no other explanation for the Gentleman’s presence. No stowaway could have dressed so well, he reasoned, and faeries, as Jonathan Strange had frequently pointed out, no longer existed anywhere but in dreams.

A dream, then, but even in dreams there were customs. Jack was not entirely ignorant of magic, anymore than he could be ignorant of the stars or the relationship of sine and cosine. There were certain social niceties that must be observed, and he would do well to observe them, even in sleep. He bowed, feeling uncommonly like a child playing at courtship, and the Gentleman bowed even lower. “Ah, Captain,” he said, looking hopeful. “How happy I am that you have found me in my time of distress! I am afraid there is a magician aboard- a fact I was not aware of when I boarded, though I am as all-knowing as the druids- and I find such creatures as distasteful as scorpions.”

“I see,” said Jack. He was a little surprised at his own clear-headedness, but this, he supposed was the nature of dreams. “You’ve, er, _sensed_ him, have you?”

“Just so.”

“Well, I’m that is my particular friend, Dr. Maturin. A deep old file, that one, and no yellow curtain chap if you follow me.”

“Him?” the Gentleman’s eyes flew open. “Why, that ugly little man is hardly a magician at all. He only studies it, and not even proper magic, but the magic they do in Catalonia. I have never heard of him before today, and I have been to Heaven and Hell and all up and down the King’s Roads. No, I mean the _English_ magician. How did he come here? By whose authority?”

“I’m afraid Admiral Harte’s to thank for that,” said Jack. Then, because he could not help himself, he added, “Shame he didn’t have the _heart_ to spare me the trouble, eh? Eh?”

This made him laugh for a good several minutes, with his eyes tightly closed and his hand over his mouth. How funny, he thought, as his elation settled. He had never yet been able to come off with a wit when he was dreaming.

When at last Jack recovered himself, he found the Gentleman looking fiercely at him, all trace of his earlier frustration wiped away and replaced by a look of great intensity. “Why, Captain,” he said, his tone only just shy of sycophantic. “You have quite the way with words.”

“Oh, tosh. Anyone could have done it,” said Jack modestly. “But I _can_ get a good thing out now and then, can’t I?”

“You can. Why, I have forgotten the English magician already,” said the Gentleman, spreading wide his arms. “You have cheered me immeasurably. I am most grateful to you.”

“Think nothing of it, nothing at all.”

“You must allow me to give you something in return,” the Gentleman smiled, and here he offered his hand, palm upwards, as though inviting Jack to dance.

The first prickles of unease began to creep along Jack’s skin. “Nonsense. There’s no need for any of that, now.”

The Gentleman looked surprised. “No?” he said slowly, his hand still out. “Are you quite sure? I would have you visit me in my home, in far away Lost Hope. I would show you wonders, Captain Aubrey. I think you do not fully understand.”

“I understand perfectly well,” said Jack, unease giving way to irritation, “and I’m not having it. It is not right to shake a faerie’s hand. Every child knows that from the nursery. I’ve no wish to end up a spotted toad or a thicket or a clump of heather upon a hill.”

“But you would not,” said the Gentleman urgently, crowding a little closer. “Come, come. If you are dreaming, then what is the harm? You shall be well taken care of, I promise you. Why, the English magician would give his right hand for such a chance as this. You would be a fool to choose otherwise.”

Jack was the sort of man who, upon realizing that he was dreaming, was quite capable of waking himself up again. He found himself unable to wake now. Unnerved, and feeling the beginnings of real discomfort, he pushed the Gentleman away with both hands. Though his voice was airy and ethereal, the Gentleman’s body was solid as timber. He took two steps back when Jack pushed him, and his hands dropped to his sides.

“What manner of thing are you, really?” said Jack, his voice rising. “I took you for a faerie, a dream-thing. Are you a spirit conjured by magic? No, in fact, I find I do not care what you are, nor if Mr. Strange produced you. I won’t have you call me a fool on my own damned ship.”

The Gentleman grew very red in the face. His mouth opened and closed, and his hands shook at his sides. He looked for all the world like a man possessed, as though some unfathomable rage was poised to rip through him and propel him across the cabin into Jack’s face.

“You-” he croaked. “You- you disrespectful- you teasing _-_ ”

The words seemed to choke him. Then he stormed up the length of the cabin, clenching his fists all the while, until to Jack’s shock he took hold of the cabin windows and flung them wide like curtains. The glass hung in fluttering drapes about him, looking like nothing so much as fabric. _“You,”_ cried the Gentleman, pointing one trembling finger at Jack. “You were born under a lucky star, and _this,_ ” here he plucked a star from the heavens and brandished it in Jack’s face, _“this_ is that very star!”

And so it was. It lay in the Gentleman’s palm just so, like a wink of light or a gleam in an old man’s eye. Jack gazed down upon it, stunned into silence, and when the Gentleman’s hand closed over it he felt a sudden pang of loss, like a child seeing a butterfly unjustly crushed. All at once the deck felt unsteady beneath him, and Jack heard the ship groan wearily as though in pain.

“You will _regret_ -” the Gentleman sneered, but his voice was shaking with emotion, and the words would not quite come. “You- you- let us _see,_ then! Let us see how you like my offer with a run of bad luck upon you, hmm? You will regret saying no to me! I won’t have it! I won’t have it!”

Jack leapt at him just as the Gentleman stepped out of the world. Jack’s hands found only the cool, smooth glass of the cabin windows, restored to their former panes. He whirled around, feeling pale and concerned, but the Gentleman was gone.

He heard a frantic knocking at the door. Jack nodded without thinking, then a moment later, raised his voice. “Come in.”

It was a mid, very small, with hair that stuck up at the back in a most unfortunate way. “Begging your pardon, sir,” he said breathlessly, “but a storm is on its way- Mr. Bonden says he’s never seen the like- came out of nowhere, no warning- rotten bad luck, sir, it’s rotten bad luck.”

“Yes,” said Jack, dazed. He sat down heavily on his sea chest and waved the boy away. “Rotten bad luck.”


End file.
